


The Silent Treatment

by Sestra_Prior



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-11
Updated: 2006-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sestra_Prior/pseuds/Sestra_Prior
Summary: The Muggle world is a cold and unfriendly place for a wizard used to the finer things in life.





	

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of J K Rowling. But Lucius secretly wishes he were mine…oh yes he does!

 

Beta-ed by RaeWhit – Goodness knows why she puts up with me – but I am so grateful that she does.

 

****

The Silent Treatment

Our first time together started with an awkward hug, which in itself was an indication of just how far our relationship had progressed.

~~~

They had stripped him of his wealth, his power and his magic. Then, disowned by his family, they had banished him to live in the Muggle world…the ultimate punishment for one such as he.

I followed them, hidden beneath my invisibility cloak, when they took him to the small village, and pointed out to him the end terrace cottage that was to be his new home. I watched as they handed him a set of keys before they Apparated away, leaving him standing alone. I tailed him as he squared his shoulders and made his way up the path that led through the unkempt garden, unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Then I slipped around the side of the house until I could see him standing in the small kitchen.

I watched as he tossed the keys onto the kitchen table and looked around. I watched as he pulled out a chair and sank down upon it. Then I turned away as his head dropped onto his arms, and his shoulders began to shake.

~~~

I had gone for closure. To see the last of my enemies brought to justice. I had expected to be left with a feeling of…maybe not _triumph_ but perhaps _satisfaction_ ; instead I was left disconcerted, with a feeling of _wrongness_ , somehow. He seemed so very changed from the man that I had known, that it was almost as if they were punishing someone else.

There was no doubt he deserved what he’d got. Indeed, had the dementors still been doling out justice, he would have received the Kiss. I found myself wondering if it wouldn’t have been kinder in the long run. I had a feeling that _this_ way, his end would be slower, but no less inevitable.

I thought about him for two days before I went back. I was the only one who could perhaps _understand_ what it felt like to be suddenly thrust into a world one knew nothing about. The only one who _could_ help him—who could _get away_ with helping him, and even _I_ would have to be careful. 

~~~

His face was blank when he answered my knock on his door. He simply stared at me.

"I've come to help," I managed to blurt out. 

It says a lot about how much he was missing his world, that he didn't immediately slam the door in my face. Instead, he continued to stare at me, then, unbelievably, he stood to one side and gestured for me to enter. I was so dumbfounded that I stood, blinking, on the doorstep for several seconds before his sigh of impatience stirred my feet to life. 

He led me into the tiny kitchen, and sank down onto the same chair he had been seated on before, when I had watched him through the window. I wondered if he had even moved from it since. I pulled out the other chair and sat down awkwardly. We stared at each other until finally I said, "Um, a cup of tea would be nice." He made no move to rise, so I added, "I'll make us one, shall I?"

I scrambled to my feet, relieved at having something to do.

They had stocked the kitchen with the bare necessities. I filled the kettle from the tap, aware that he was watching my every move, and made sure he was able to see how I plugged it in and turned it on. He arose and came to stand by me. Leaning against the work surface, silently watching as I rooted through his cupboards to find teapot, teabags and sugar.

I wondered again if he had moved from this room during the time that I had been away, perhaps only to use the downstairs loo that I had spotted on our way through the hall.

He started back when, on opening the fridge door, white light streamed out. From the corner of my eye I saw his keen interest. 

Someone had been thorough. There was milk, butter, eggs and cheese, even a packet of bacon. I resolved to ask him later if he had eaten, although I thought I could already guess the answer.

I made the tea and we resumed our places at the table. His hands curled around the mug as if drawing comfort from the warmth, and he drank it greedily, nodding and passing his mug back when I asked if he wanted more.

It was strange, sitting there in the darkening kitchen, drinking tea with him as if we were old friends instead of old enemies. But I knew he was suffering; there was something in his eyes, coupled with the fact that he had been so quick to let me in. I didn't underestimate him, though. I watched my back and kept my wand close at all times.

I made an omelette for us, snipping bits of bacon into it, along with an onion I’d discovered in a bag of vegetables that I’d found in the cupboard beneath the sink. He tried to eat slowly, but the hunger in his eyes was evident, and I found myself silently cursing those who had done this to him.

After we had eaten, I washed up. There was a drawer of neatly folded tea towels, and I handed one to him. From the look on his face, one would have thought I had handed him a dead flobberworm, but when I told him what to do, he complied, although I could have laughed at his expression.

Afterwards, not even asking his permission, I set about exploring his house. He dogged my footsteps, almost as if he too were exploring for the first time. Perhaps he was. He stared in obvious amazement when I flicked on light switches.

Downstairs, there was a small hallway that led into the kitchen, the loo I had noticed earlier, and a small front room. Upstairs there was a bathroom, a box room, and a double bedroom. All the furnishings were bland, beige and impersonal, and I wondered if the house had been bought fully furnished. I delved into cupboards and drawers—not to be nosy, just to assess what he had, and what he would need to purchase. In his bedroom, where the unslept-in bed spoke volumes, I blushed to find a drawer of what was obviously his own underwear—black, silk boxer shorts and pairs of fine, black woollen and silk socks. On spotting the contents, he reached around me and firmly pushed the drawer shut. In the other drawers were a couple of hideous shirts and two pairs of brown trousers, which, I was sure, did _not_ belong to him.

On completing my tour, we went back downstairs, and I turned to him.

"We need to do some shopping." I paused, unsure of how to phrase the next question. "Um, do you have any money?"

He regarded me silently, then reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope; he glanced at it before handing it to me.

I sat down at the table and emptied the contents out onto the surface before me. There were details of a bank account in his name and a record of the balance. I whistled when I saw the amount; either they had decided to be generous, or, more likely, they had no idea of just how much Muggle money was worth. Whilst he was, of course, not as wealthy as he had been before, he had plenty to live on, if he was careful, for a considerable time. The envelope also contained the deeds to the house. 

"I can't come tomorrow, but I'll be back the day after. We can go shopping then. Okay?"

He stared at me, and then nodded once.

I thought I saw a flash of something in his eyes that might have been worry, perhaps a reluctance to let me leave. Maybe he was even concerned I wouldn't return. He let me out, and I walked away down the path, turning at the gate to raise my hand in farewell. I was aware of him watching me until I passed out of sight. It was then that I realised that he hadn't spoken once the entire time I was with him.

~~~

I had been astonished at how quickly he’d let me into his house, at how readily he’d accepted my help. But the more time I spent with him, the more I came to realise just how very broken he was. I truly believe now, that had I not come to help him, he would have simply sat on that chair in the kitchen until he wasted away. 

~~~

I returned as I had promised. The expression of relief on his face was obvious when he opened the door, and then stood to one side, allowing me to enter.

He had made some attempts to live. There was evidence that he had made himself cups of tea, and when I checked the fridge, some of the cheese had gone. He was clean and his hair had been washed, so I assumed that he had also bathed or showered.

I cooked him eggs and bacon, once again making sure he could see what I was doing. Then, as he wolfed them down, I pulled a pen and a notebook from my pocket and began to make a shopping list. On the pretext of needing to use his loo, I also made a quick note of the toiletries he needed. 

I had invested in a mobile phone, much to Arthur Weasley's delight, and I used this to call for a taxi. I was sure we could have caught a bus, but I felt that the trauma of shopping would be enough for one day.

~~~

There had been a bankcard with the documents in the envelope, and a scrap of paper with a four-digit number written on it, which I assumed was the PIN for the card. So our first stop, when we reached the small local town, was at the cash point, where I withdrew a few hundred pounds. I thought about handing it to him, but in the end I folded it into my wallet, taking my own money out of it first, and stuffing it in my jeans pocket.

In some ways he was like a child, wide-eyed with curiosity, and I wondered just how he had managed to insulate himself so thoroughly from the Muggle world. He found the hurrying crowds, the pushing, the traffic and the noise, a trial. He was unsure of everything, and the distress in his eyes was evident. I tried to keep him calm, staying close to his side, placing my hand on his arm, and keeping up a steady flow of comments. I described and explained, not sure if he was taking in anything that I said. Occasionally I felt his body tremble…. When that happened, I just wanted to hold him.

He drew many curious glances, and some downright _lascivious_ looks, from men and women alike. Of course, his clothing and appearance stood out in this northern backwater. He seemed oblivious to the stares, his mind too full, I suppose, of the strangeness of everything. That, coupled with his old habit of ignoring those he considered beneath him.

We shopped for clothes. He shook his head when I tried to get him to try on anything that wasn't black, but other than that he was surprisingly compliant, and I soon had him fitted out with several pairs of black trousers, including two pairs of jeans. I had to swallow hard when he came out of the changing room clad only in the black denim, chest bare. I bought him shirts and jumpers, shoes and boots, and a leather jacket that set my heart beating faster. Whatever else, there had never been any denying that he was a supremely attractive man. 

I arranged for everything to be delivered to his house, then we made our way to the supermarket.

He was appalled. He had still not spoken, but his face was so full of expression, that he didn't need to. The blank-faced women, the screaming children, the sheer _basicness_ of it all. He was so out of his depth, so at a loss, that it would have been funny had it not been so very tragic.

I bought simple, easy-to-cook things and a cookery book. I didn't have the time to come and see him every day; he would have to learn to stand on his own two feet. And that included learning to cook. We battled through the checkout, and while we waited for a taxi, I bought him a mobile phone with my own money, wondering, as I did so, why I was bothering. If he couldn't speak to me face-to-face, I didn't hold out much hope of him being able to speak to me using a Muggle telephone. Still, I had to hope that one day he would talk again. I realised how much I wanted to hear his voice.

By the time we got back to his house, he looked absolutely drained. Shadows lurked under his eyes, and he sat down heavily on the chair in the kitchen, shoulders slumped, barely watching as I put the shopping away. I decided to postpone the cookery lesson until another day. Instead I went upstairs and ran him a hot bath. He followed me, watching as I filled the tub and added a generous dollop of bath foam. 

"I'll leave you to it," I said, turning to go. "I'll try and pop in tomorrow…show you how the cooker works…." The look on his face was so desperate, that all I wanted to do was take him into my arms, but I couldn't. I simply placed my hand on his arm. "Don't worry, I _will_ be back, I promise." He nodded then, and his hand came up and gave mine a brief squeeze.

~~~

So began our relationship. Every couple of days, I would pop in and see how he was doing. I hadn’t intended to see him so frequently; all I had meant to do was set him on his feet and then leave him to it. But I hadn’t bargained on just how much I would need to teach him, or how much I would come to enjoy his company. 

Whilst he may have been perhaps unable to talk, his face was so expressive as to negate the necessity for words: I came to read each quirk of his eyebrows; each half-smile; each furrow of his brow; each glare. Because I couldn't rely on his words to tell me how he was feeling, I observed his movements so much more closely, making a study of them until I became nearly as fluent in the language of _his_ body as I was in my own. 

I taught him to cook, explaining patiently that it was a bit like potions; he had given me a wry look at that remark. The washing machine was another mystery I had to unravel for him: showing him how to sort his laundry, where to put the detergent tablets, what settings to use. Together we dealt with his bills, in which he proved to have a much better head for figures than I did, often giving me a withering look, pulling the pen and paper towards him, and crossing out my scribbled figures before making quick mental calculations and rapid notes. He grasped the concept of Muggle money far more quickly than I had expected, but then again, maybe money was money, whatever it looked like, in his mind.

We worked out the timetable for the local bus. Arranged for the delivery of milk. I found a chimney sweep, who came and swept the chimney, chattering cheerfully as he did so, and that night we sat in comfortable silence, watching the flames flickering on the coal I had found in a bunker in the back garden.

The local auction rooms became a favourite haunt of ours, where we picked up odd bits of furniture and bric-a-brac, gradually morphing the bland house into a home. He had a good eye, and could often spot the potential of an item far better than I could, although the first time I had taken him there, he had scowled at the second-hand furniture, then turned to glare at me. 

“Of course,” I had said, somewhat snappily, “you are perfectly entitled to spend your money on brand new furniture if you wish, but just remember, the quicker your money is gone, the sooner you will have to get a job!”

His eyes had gone comically wide; then he had turned back to the ranks of furniture with a sigh, a look of stoic acceptance on his face.

We were there one day, sorting through boxes of junk, when I suddenly heard him gasp. I turned in time to see him reel away from the box he had been rooting through, as though it contained a live snake, his eyes wide, his face pale. Hurrying to his side, I bent to see what it was that had so upset him. There, nestled amongst the other bits and pieces, was a wand. I regarded it in amazement, then tentatively reached out and picked it up. It was dead. There was no "fizz" from it, as though its magical core had been stripped out, leaving only a hollow wooden echo. It reminded me of Lucius himself. 

After that incident, I tried to find out just what had been done to him in prison. But even with _my_ influence and connections, I was unable to discover more than that they had considered him to be extremely dangerous, and that they had practised some sort of conditioning spells on him. Nobody I spoke to would say much, although I did get the impression that there were some people who were still not happy with the situation. The magic used had, according to what I _did_ find out, been formerly forbidden Dark Arts spells. I assumed it was this same _conditioning_ that caused his lack of speech. 

~~~

Gradually he became more confident, but still he didn't speak. I had shown him how to use the mobile phone, and had programmed in my telephone number, explaining to him that if he ever needed me, he was to call. I was not sure if he’d understood, until one day my phone rang, and his number was displayed. I picked up the call, but there was only silence. Still, I knew it was he, and I answered his unspoken summons immediately.

~~~

He was waiting for me in the kitchen. I had my own key now, and had let myself in, concerned about what had caused him to take the huge step of ringing me. The table was set with two places, and he gave me the first smile I had seen since he had been banished. 

"Th…thank you."

His first words, spoken in a voice rusty from lack of use, but I could have cried.

He proudly produced a meal for us both. Each dish was perfectly cooked, and I felt huge pride in him. I knew how hard this had been for him…this adjustment from being a pampered, wealthy wizard, to being forced to live as a humble Muggle. The trips to the supermarket had been every bit as daunting to him as a trip to a Death Eater meeting would have been for me. 

Eventually I rose to go, and that was when he came up to me and drew me into that awkward hug, then, without letting me go, he drew slightly away, a frown creasing his brow, and a question in his eyes.

I solved his problem by reaching up and gently pressing my lips to his. Just a brush. I had led the way for him in so many things in the past few months, but I felt that this was something _he_ needed to take charge of.

His hands came up to cup my face, fingertips tracing delicately over my eyebrows, cheekbones and jaw-line. The pad of his thumb brushed over my slightly parted lips, and I desperately wanted to suck the digit in and make promises with my tongue; instead I merely stuck out the tip, and trailed a thin, wet line across the pad. He pulled the thumb away from me, then brought it to his mouth, eyes fixed on mine, and sucked the wetness into his own mouth.

My knees nearly gave way. I was astonished that such a simple action could be so erotic. Maybe, had it been anyone else, it wouldn't have been.

He moved closer to me, and his hands dropped to my shoulders. His gaze was intense, the query still in his eyes and on his brow, coupled with worry, and it distressed me that this once supremely confident man had been reduced to someone so unsure of himself.

But he ducked his head, and then he was kissing me. Just light touches of his lips and, although I longed for more, I responded equally softly, trying to reassure and calm with the simple touch of my mouth to his.

His arms slipped round me and he drew me gently closer, now deepening the kisses, his tongue tracing my lips before slipping into my mouth. I moaned then, and I felt him tense and try to pull away. But I held him fast and before too long he had relaxed again, his tongue once more continuing its exploration of my mouth. 

Neither one of us had spoken. I know that _I_ was afraid that to speak might break the spell, but there was something I had to say before this went any further.

I drew back from him, noting the worry in his eyes that he had done something wrong.

"I really, really want this," I managed to say. "But I have to know that this is what _you_ want too. You have to want this for _you_ , not because you think you owe me anything." My gaze was every bit as intense as his own. I desperately hoped that his desire matched mine, that he really _was_ doing this for himself, and not because he felt he had to please me. I don't know what I would have done had he released me and turned away, so I was incredibly relieved when a slight smile creased his lips and he pulled me back into his arms.

This time his movements were more assured and I gave myself up to the delight of being thoroughly kissed by him. His hands dropped from my shoulders and ran down my back, fingertips pressing slightly into my body, until he reached my buttocks. Then his hands cupped my arse and began to sweep in circles, gripping and releasing, spreading my cheeks as far as the fabric of my jeans would allow, before squeezing them back together.

~~~

I can't pinpoint exactly when I began to think of him as a prospective sexual partner. I had always secretly found him attractive…even when he was threatening to kill me, but I had no way of knowing if he was even into men.

During the time the Ministry had been working their way through Azkaban, prisoner-by-prisoner, trial-by-trial, I had been making my way through a series of sexual partners. Heady with the knowledge that I had finally defeated Voldemort once and for all, I had given in to a lust for life, which saw me experiment with my sexuality until I finally came to the decision that I preferred partners of my own sex. 

I had wondered, even if he was willing to bed me, just how far his knowledge would extend—whether I would have to guide and teach. Now, from his self-assured movements, I began to wonder if _he_ would be the one doing the teaching.

~~~

He released me, staring deep into my eyes, then took my hand and began to lead me upstairs to his bedroom. I followed willingly: my body alive with the prospect of being naked, possessed; my erection straining the front of my jeans, rubbing deliciously against the material as we mounted the stairs.

When we reached his room, he turned back to me, his eyes dark now with desire. For a moment, I wondered if I should reach out and begin to undress him. But he beat me to it; his deft fingers began unbuttoning my shirt; his eyes focused on each small circle of pearl, his movements slow and deliberate. I would have ripped the shirt from my back, scattering the buttons to the four winds, so great was my need to be pressed naked against him, and his unhurried actions only served to heighten my desire. He took care not to touch my skin until all the buttons were undone. Then his hands slipped inside and burnt trails of fire on my flesh as his hands swept over my nipples and up to my shoulders, easing my shirt off, sliding his hands down my arms as he pushed the material away, and off onto the floor.

He circled around behind me; then I felt his hands on the buckle of my belt, his body pressed against my back. I leant back into the circle of his arms as he deftly undid the clasp and slipped the strip of leather from the buckle. The "snick" as it came loose made my head drop back onto his shoulder; it was such a _suggestive_ sound. I felt his lips drop to my neck, nipping tiny bits of my skin into his mouth and caressing them with the tip of his tongue. Then his fingers were undoing the buttons on my fly and I bucked against the touch. I heard him chuckle. His hands were on the waistband of my trousers now, pushing them off. I toed off my shoes, thankful I was not wearing trainers, and my jeans pooled around my ankles. I stepped out of them and kicked them away. He moved away from me, and my body cried out at the loss of his warmth.

He moved to stand in front of me again, hands loose by his sides, and gazed at me. I saw the question in his eyes, and nodded. His eyes dropped to my boxers, and then he brought up his hands, grasped the waistband, delicately unhooking them from my erection, and slid them off. Now I was standing, completely naked, before him.

I don't think I have ever felt so exposed in my life…or so incredibly turned-on. His eyes roamed over my body, lingering on my nipples and my prick. Then his hands came up and he began to explore my flesh with the very tips of his fingers, his touch as light as a breath. My body was screaming for more contact; he was teasing me into desperation, but I held still, determined to let him have his way with me. He reached around me to palm my buttocks, repeating his motions of earlier, squeezing and spreading, occasional brushing his fingers deeper into my crease, coming so close to touching the entrance to my body, but never quite doing so. 

My cock was throbbing and eventually I could take no more. "Oh, please, _please_ ," I begged.

It was as if he had been waiting for permission to pleasure me, for at my words he dropped to his knees at my feet, then, his hands on my hips, he ducked his head and took the tip of my prick into his mouth.

I cried out at the contact, at the hot wetness that suddenly surrounded me, and my hands laced themselves into his hair, pulling him closer, trying to insert more of my longing length into his mouth. He obliged, sucking me in, teasing me with the tip of his tongue. My hips bucked forward, thrusting my prick deeper. His hands went back to caressing my arse and I couldn't help myself; as hard as I tried, I couldn't stop my orgasm tearing through my body, the sight of him on his knees with my prick in his mouth, just too delicious to bear. He swallowed my essence down, tongue almost torturous on my over sensitised cock. 

He stood and drew me into his arms, cradling me until the after effects of my climax faded, and my breathing returned to normal. Then he released me and stood, watching me. I realised it was my turn to undress him.

I lacked his finesse, simply too desperate to get him naked. I fumbled at his shirt buttons, nearly screaming with frustration as they resolutely refused to obey my trembling fingers. His hand came down on top of mine, steadying me, holding me still until I managed to control my shaking. I undid his shirt, pushing it back to reveal that broad expanses of paleness that had caused my breath to shorten back in the clothing shop. Ducking my head, I kissed each of his hard nipples, delighted to hear the catch of his breath as I drew each one in turn into my mouth, teasing with my lips and teeth. 

But I needed more, and soon my hands dropped to the catch on his trousers, fingers fumbling once again. He wore no shoes in the house, always kicking them off at the door, so I was able to pull off his trousers with no trouble. I paused; his erection was evident, sheathed by the material of his boxers, and I crouched, a moan on my lips, and rubbed my face against the silk-covered hardness, before tugging them off. Then he too was naked and I feasted my eyes on him as he stood, acquiescent under my close scrutiny.

For a man his age, which, of course, was no age really, when one was a wizard, he cut a fine figure of a man: from his broad shoulders, across the smooth planes of his chest; to his slim waist and hips, and further, to the nest of ash blonde curls and the treasure that rose firmly from their depth; down his long legs to his slim, elegant feet…. I longed to kiss every inch of him. It was rather liked being offered a feast; I just didn't know where to start. I dragged my gaze away from his prick and looked into his eyes. There was a smile on his lips, as if he were amused at my wide-eyed wonder.

I answered with a grin of my own, and pushed him backwards until the back of his legs met the edge of the bed, and he dropped to sit on the covers. He lay back, propping himself on his elbows as I pushed apart his knees and sank between them. I licked my lips, eyeing up his cock, wondering where to start. His hips gave a buck of impatience, pushing his prick into my face. And in one swift movement, I sheathed as much of him in my needy mouth as I could, before releasing him and dancing my tongue over and around his length, pressing firmly up the underside before once more engulfing him in my heated mouth. I heard him moan, hips jumping to meet my ducking head, and I doubled my efforts, delighting in the taste and scent of him.

But before I could bring him to climax, he stopped me, reaching his hands beneath my arms and dragging me up the bed on top of him. I writhed as I felt his erection beneath my own, but he flipped me off, onto my front, firm hands pressing me into the bed. His hands dragged apart the cheeks of my arse, exposing the scrunched entrance of my body to the cold of the room, then the heat and firmness of his tongue was inserted and I cried out my approval. In the blur that followed, as his talented tongue had its wicked way with me, I had one clear thought…lubrication; I had never found saliva to be particularly satisfactory, but supposed that, on this occasion, it would have to do.

I was wrong. I felt the bed dip as he removed his tongue and moved to reach into a drawer in the bedside table, and I watched in amazement as he pulled out a tube of jelly. When he turned back to me, he noticed me watching him, and all of a sudden, I caught a glimpse of the man he used to be…a predatory smile on his face, eyes narrowed in amusement at my flabbergasted expression. Who knows when he bought it, when he'd had the thought that it might come in handy, but he'd obviously been one step ahead of me, and, in a small way, that frightened me. 

Then his slippery, coated fingers were pressing into me, and all thoughts fled my mind as my senses were overloaded by the feeling of him entering me and stretching me, deftly finding the sweet spot inside me, and brushing unerringly over it each time he pushed inside. 

I wanted him. Oh, Merlin, how I wanted him, and as he finally withdrew his fingers and pulled up my hips so I was on all fours, I could have screamed, I was so tense with expectation and desire.

Then the hard, blunt tip of his cock was pressed to me, and with a rapid urge of his hips, he sheathed himself part way inside me. My cry was laced with pain, so sudden and brutal was his entrance, and I keened again as he thrust the rest of his length inside my greedy channel. He paused then, hands stroking the length of my back, soothing me before he moved back to grip my hips firmly, and withdrew. I braced myself against the rickety, modern headboard. Another hard thrust, deep inside me, pounding over my sweet spot and sending sparks of pleasure/pain up the length of my back. His fingers were cruel on my hips, digging in hard, and I knew there would be bruises. 

But my body welcomed his assault, and as his thrusts became more rapid, I began to push back to meet them, the pain fading and turning to mind-blowing pleasure, the whole of my body buzzing. The world became him and me, bound together, twisting and turning in a maelstrom of heightened senses and base desire. 

He slammed in to me again, then sat back on his heels, dragging me with him so I was seated on his lap, fully impaled on his cock. With a hump of his hips, he encouraged me to rise, and now I took up the rhythm, rising and falling rapidly, helped by his hands on my hips, angling myself so that each impulse brought intense pleasure. I was soon soaked with sweat, supremely thankful that I was so fit.

Then he pushed me back onto all fours, my legs trembling with fatigue, and I was grateful when he once more took over the pace, his hips driving his length hard and fast, pulling me back to meet each thrust. 

His hands left my hips and one reached for my cock; the other came around my body to seize, tweak and tease one of my nipples. It was too much; that added stimulation was all it took. I screamed out his name as I came, feeling the explosion of his own release deep inside me, when he too reached his climax moments later.

I collapsed onto the bed, and he fell with me, pressed to my back, his breath hot and panting on my neck. For a few moments he lay still, then, with a groan, he slipped from my body and rolled to my side, pulling me against him so he was spooned around me.

I had never felt so completely and thoroughly fucked…satisfied and satiated. I smiled sleepily before drifting off into a light dose, revelling in the feel of his body curled around mine

~~~

It was always the same. During sex he would revert to the man he had once been, dominant and powerful, as if the basic act triggered his body’s memory. Afterwards, he would go back to being the quiet, subdued man he had become.

~~~

I began my Auror training in the autumn, and I began to see less and less of him. My days were busy with classes and instruction, and in the evenings my new friends made demands on my social life. We were a rowdy bunch, and we partied long and hard, making up for the rigours of our training. It was with a start that I suddenly realised, one day, that it had been three months since I last saw him. I felt a huge pang of guilt, which I quickly tried to assuage with the thought that had anything been wrong he would have called me. Nevertheless, I decided to visit him the following day. 

~~~

I let myself into his house, and walked into the kitchen, where I came face to face with a complete stranger. He was tall, dark and gorgeous, and I hated him so much that I wanted to be sick on his shoes.

He turned to me, obviously at home, his vivid blue eyes twinkling and a grin on his face.

“Hi! You must be the friend I’ve heard so much about?” The voice was rich and dark.

I _sensed_ rather than heard _him_ come into the kitchen behind me, and I turned, trying to mask the pain and anger on my face. Hair still damp from a shower, he was wearing the jeans I had bought with him, and he smelt of the aftershave I had persuaded him to buy. He looked beautiful. His eyes narrowed at my expression, and a frown creased his brow. 

For five minutes, I forced pleasantries through my gritted teeth, before inventing a pressing appointment and making my excuses. He followed me to the front door, and as I reached to open it, he placed a tentative hand on my arm. I shrugged him off, and barged angrily out of his house, before another thought twisted my guts and I turned back and demanded, “How come you could talk to _him_ but not to me?”

His face twisted with distress, his mouth opened and closed, as if he were trying to force out words, but I hardened my heart, then turned and left.

~~~

Later, at home, I cursed myself. Somewhere along the line, I'd stopped worrying about his welfare, concerning myself only with my own gratification. I'd done what I'd sworn I wouldn't do—used him. I’d taken advantage of his vulnerability and loneliness, and I'd treated him like a kept whore, visiting him when I’d wanted sex—and he'd let me, because I’d been all he'd had. Well, now he'd found someone else and I realised, too late, that I cared for him… _really_ cared for him. I twisted the knife some more as I pictured him alone and probably waiting for me, on Christmas Day, whilst _I_ had spent the day, first with the Weasleys’, then later with my new friends. He would have sat up until late, expecting me to call round, then finally, realising that I wasn’t coming, he would have gone to bed. I cried then: a combination of self-loathing, of misery, but most of all, for what I had done to him. 

The following day, when I picked up my jacket, the keys to his house fell from the pocket. I stared at them for a moment, before picking them up.

I thought about things for a week before I made the decision to go back. 

~~~

 

This time I knocked. When he answered the door, he frowned, wondering perhaps why I had not used my key.

“May I come in?” I asked.

He nodded, and then stood aside to let me enter. He led me into the kitchen, this time empty, thankfully, of any tall, handsome strangers. He set about making a pot of tea, and I sank into a chair and watched him. Finally he turned, set a mug down in front of me, and took his own seat.

I struggled to find the words I needed to say, to force them past my lips. My head ached, and I felt an almost overwhelming sense of emptiness inside. I had lost him…and I only had myself to blame. 

“I’m sorry. I just came to say I’m sorry,” I managed to blurt out.

He gave me an odd look, a frown creasing his forehead.

“I’ve been a bastard to you. I should never have treated you the way I did. I’ve taken from you, used you…and I had no right to. I've behaved appallingly. I’m sorry…” I trailed off, tears prickling my eyes. I swallowed hard and tried to continue.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say that really, I'm pleased you’ve found some…someone, someone else,” I forced between gritted teeth, when all I wanted to do was cry and hurl myself into his arms and beg him to take me back.

"Over…when I knew you cared." 

He'd had to struggle to get the words out and I stared at him, stunned and speechless. It was the longest sentence I had heard him utter in years. 

“B…b…but…” I managed to stutter, “I…you…he…I don’t understand….”

He rose swiftly, came to my side, and drew me to my feet and into his arms. It was like coming home, safe and warm, and I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, that I had passed up on this to spend so much time with my friends. But really, I knew. It was because I had taken him for granted. Sure that he would always be there for me, wherever I decided to turn up. Well, I had been given a rude awakening…and, it seemed, a second chance. This time I was determined not to mess up what I now realised was something precious. _Unexpected_ , but precious.

He led me to bed and we made love. Not sex, _love_. And as we came down from that great orgasmic high, I heard him say quietly, “Harry, my Harry.” I snuggled into his side. “My Lucius,” I whispered, my arms wrapped possessively around him, determined that this time I would not let him go.

~~~

We never did discover what it was that had caused him to lose his ability to speak. It only seemed to affect him when he tried to talk to magical folk…. Muggles he could talk to with no problem, although he rarely bothered. Eventually, he found it easier to string a few words together. Each was as precious to me as diamonds, and I treasured every one. Had he not been the man he was, I doubt he would have managed even that. The day he told me he loved me was the most special in my life.

It took me two years to persuade the Ministry to let me bring him back to my home. I assumed all responsibility for him, and it was only because of who I was that they eventually allowed it.

They checked up on him periodically over the next five years: once a week, then once a month, and finally, only twice a year.

He never changed, never came out of the shell of silence into which they had forced him. He was ever quiet and subdued, although, as the years passed, he exhibited more signs of humour. Only in the bedroom did he reclaim his old persona, forceful and domineering – and I loved it!

 

~~~Fin~~~


End file.
